


through the gray woods came lanterns with wagons and horses

by squirrellysemantics



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Gen, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-22
Updated: 2011-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-22 22:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squirrellysemantics/pseuds/squirrellysemantics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Desmond Miles tries to lose himself in the wilds of Colorado.  There are some things from which no man can hide.  A Wild West historical AU of the modern Assassins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ever have something that sticks in your head and won't let go? This is one of those things. Warnings for drug use.

  
His whole body awakens all at once and Desmond fights off the dreams that have come to haunt him.  Strange words and even stranger memories make the roof over his head seem foreign.  Out of place. 

Easy enough to do when you’ve been making your way out west under the best of circumstances.  Hopping from between every one horse town to another. 

  


  
It had been three months, though.  Three months in La Porte.  The boarding house almost seemed like home and it had been an awfully long time since he could say the same about anywhere else.

  


  
He throws an arm behind his head and worries that are more commonplace take over his thoughts. Too comfortable here.  Getting too  
complacent.  Besides, work had dried up.  Anything worth trapping was moving south for the winter.  Best he moves right along with ‘em.

  


  
His body is shifting before he knows it.  Old habits die hard and he taps out his boots as if he back out in the wilderness rather than with  
a roof over his head.  It’s a good one to keep.  He’ll be out in the backcountry again soon enough. 

  


  
Duster settles across his shoulders like a second skin.  He’s grateful now for the evening he’d spent oiling it.  The winter would probably be a tough one.  His hat and holster follow soon after.   He grabs his pack and saddle and he’s good to go.

  


  
Always ready to run.  Not the life he would have chosen looking back but it’s the only one he gets to have right now.

  


  
The day is spent putting his affairs in order, not that he had many to take care of.  Stock up, settle his debts.  He heads back to his usual hitching post, with one more thing he should be doing.

  


  
But he knows he can’t.

  


  
“Hey, boy,” he whispers, and Aguila is already nuzzling his pockets looking for whatever bit of sweet stuff that’s always there.  The deep equine breaths tickle and Desmond talks more kind words into the horse’s eager ear.

  


  
The handsome gelding is the only thing he truly owns, not won nor stolen.  Bought with a summer of sweat.  Picking out a paint hadn’t been the stupidest thing he’d ever done, but it came damn close.  Too flashy, too memorable he’d warned himself, but his boy had the  
sweetest disposition and the smoothest stride of any four legged thing this side of the Rio Colorado.  No way could Desmond have picked any other. 

  


  
And no way would Desmond give him up now. 

  


  
Out come the brushes and Aguila is leaning into each stroke with a sigh of contentment.

  


  
Desmond can feel eyes on him but that doesn’t slow him down any.  He reaches across the horse’s broad back to take a quick look  
around. 

  


  
It’s Vidic.  Creepy old bastard.  Desmond always made sure to keep  his distance since the guy rolled into town a week or two before, but the man seems to pop up at the oddest moments.

  


  
It was those eyes watching him now.   All sorts of evil bundled up in a black pea coat.

  


  
Just another reason to hit the trail. 

  


  
Aquila snorts out his disappointment as the brushes are carefully put away.  Settling the saddle into place, Desmond tightens the cinches with practiced ease. 

  


  
The unusually warm day leaves him with a mouthful of dust.  The pump at the town well is usually mighty appealing but not when there’s Vidic  
right beside it.  Like the man’s waiting for him.

  


  
Desmond turns on his heel.  There’s more than one place in town to get a drink.  The seedy saloon is right there and was always happy to serve no matter the time.  He reaches for the swinging door but it’s already moving towards him.  Dancing back, he avoids the near-collision.

  


  
“Hey, watch where- oh, begging your pardon, Mister Miles!”

  


  
He looks down on the only kind soul he’s met in this shitehole.  “Hello, Miss Stillman.”  The petite blonde still has a full on attitude that brooks no kind of nonsense.   “Funny bumpin’ into you outside of this fine establishment.  Wouldn’t think this is your kind of place.”

  


  
For the first time that he’s known her, she looks away. Though he reminds himself that a few months is hardly time enough to know anyone, even himself.

  


  
“Just dropping off some pamphlets.”  She’s far too distracted, looking beyond him for something in the town square.

  


  
Desmond laughs, not quite sure of the truth to the matter.  “Think there’s any of those boys in there know how to read anything talking about giving women the vote? It'd be easier to convince ‘em with some moonshine.”

  


  
Most days the suffragette was more than happy to talk, but today is not one of those days.  She looks back into the cesspit and out into the square once more.  What is she sizing up?  “You’ll have to excuse me, Mister Miles.  There’s something urgent I must attend to.”

  


  
“Certainly, Miss.”  He puts his finger to his hat as he lets her pass, eager to let the odd meeting go. 

  


  
Inside is no less out of the ordinary.  The place is packed. This dive?  Full of rough types, too, all of them mighty ornery and ready for a fight.  Almost every seat in the house is taken. 

  


  
Except one. 

  


  
There’s an odd looking fellow alone at a table for two, restless and  tense, following the room that was following him just as closely.  Not odd as in funny looking but if there was ever a definition of a man sticking out like a sore thumb, this was it.  Prim and proper, he looks  
fresh off a stage coach from out East.  Those glasses didn’t help either.  Nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs but around here the man is right to be watching his back. 

  


  
A pang of sympathy at being new blood in an unfamiliar territory and Desmond knows where he’s going to sit.

  


  
\---------------------------------------

  


  
Good god.  Shaun holds his curses to himself, eyeing the saloon door for Lucy’s return.  Her cable had said their target was ready to move at any time so they’d come as quickly as they could.  In town less than twelve hours and here he was stranded in a festering wound of a town, not really sure who exactly they were looking for.  Perhaps Rebecca was having better luck, wherever the hell she’d been sent.   Hopefully, they’d collect this Miles character and be off before the locals got too restless.

  


  
The creak of what had been an empty chair across from him nearly sends him into the stratosphere.  There’s a young man filling it now, nowhere near as unkempt as the barbarians at Shaun’s back. 

  


  
“You’re lookin’ a little out of sorts there, stranger,” comes the forward greeting without so much as a ‘hello’.  Typical Yank.  Country not even a century old and they swan about like they own the place.

  


  
“Really?” Shaun tries to rein in his nervousness, but the sarcasm is inescapable.  “I thought I had thoroughly gone native.”

  


  
The shock on a surprisingly handsome face washes away with a laugh. “English, are ya?  You’re a long way from home.”

  


  
“Too right,” Shaun mutters more to himself, though it’s clear that he’s not the only one who hears. “Though 'home' is an abstract concept these days.”

  


  
Something about this gets the young man clucking to himself in disapproval. “Where are my manners?” the young man says. “The name’s Miles.  Desmond Miles.”

  


  
Shaun takes the proffered hand without thinking, blurting out his own name at this unexpected turn of events. “Shaun Hastings.”

  


  
A smile widens across the young man’s face and the scar bridging across full lips only stands out more “A pleasure to meet you, Mister Hastings.  Fancy a drink?”

  


  
Just the idea alone brings with it a small measure of relief.  “Mister Miles, I do believe you’ve hit upon the solution to all of my  
problems.”

  


  
There’s a gesture and in no time at all, two tumblers of whiskey are in front of them.  They each raise a glass and proclaim a brief  
“Cheers!”.

  


  
Shaun desperately tries not to spit up the vile concoction as soon as it hits his mouth.  From the looks of things, Mister Miles seems  
to not appreciate the flavor either.

  


  
“Good lord!” Shaun manages between gasps for air.  “Do you use this stuff to strip varnish as well?”

  


  
The brim of the young man's hat dips to shield most of his face.  All that is visible is a mouth twisting with a touch of humor that  
almost makes the old scar vanish. Almost.  It is not... unpleasant.  "Not too many of your kind 'round these parts, Mister Hastings." 

  


  
Shaun looks through the glass in his hand, cautiously glancing at the flotsam of humanity that populates the tables around them. "And what kind would that be, Mister Miles?"  The brown liquid he holds should be ashamed to call itself ‘whiskey’.  "One that still has all of their own  
teeth?" 

  


  
"No."  The brim lifts just enough and Shaun can feel those eyes sizing him up as he tries to take a sip.  "Smart."  

  


  
The rough whiskey hardly tastes better when it goes down his windpipe.

  


  
Desmond watches him with more than a touch of amusement, though the sip the young man takes all of that away.  “Maybe we should get  
something else,” he says with a frown.  “This stuff tastes a little off.”

  


  
The chair scrapes on wooden floor and the young man is standing, hand out to take Shaun’s glass.  Just as Shaun offers it, the hand  
goes wide as Miles stumbles.

  


  
“Are you all right?” Shaun sees the sweat breaking out across the other man’s forehead.

  


  
“What the-” The young man passes his fingers before his face, eyes wild and wide. 

  


  
The table rattles as Miles slams his glass down.  “I… I need to go. Sorry… Need to-“

  


  
Trailing off, the man was already moving before Shaun can react.  “Desmond, wait!”  

Shaun sticks a finger in the abandoned glass and the taste is bitter, revoltingly so.  He knows it though.  The tribes he’s studied have described it well. 

  


  
Mescaline.  The drink was tainted with great, heaping gobs of mescaline.  Hardly fatal, but at the quantities in that glass…

  


  
Others begin to rise from their tables, like wolves gathering around a wounded lamb but Miles is already out the door.

  


  
Shaun barrels through after him, though he doesn’t have far to go and he’s not the only one following.  

  


  
Or the only one watching.

  


  
An old man stands off across the square, something familiar about his hands stuffed in the pockets of his black pea coat.  He seems far too fascinated at the distress of another, though not particularly interested in helping.

  


  
Miles is trying to unhitch his horse and failing, hands reaching for things only he can see.  “ _Ana mareed_ ,” he’s babbling.  Is…  
is that Arabic?  “Gotta get .. oh, god-“ 

  


  
And with that Miles wretches from the bottom of his boots, his horse dancing in agitation as its master empties his stomach along the road.

  


“Get him,” Shaun hears and he spots the old man raising a finger in their direction.  Far too many men look ready to heed the man’s call.   
The numbers are overwhelming and they come at Shaun and the heaving man with guns drawn.

  


The first gunshot to sound is not at all what Shaun expects. 

  


The closest man falls at it, blood streaming from a hole in his chest. 

  


Noise is deafening with the clatter of a small horse-drawn coach barreling their way.  For once, he’s not so surprised to find Rebecca at the reins, one hand controlling two thousand pounds of beast and cart with a pistol blazing in the other. Skirts hitched up between her knees, Lucy is a passenger in the driver’s box, shotgun blasting away. 

  


It’s mayhem.  Bullets ping everywhere and Shaun looks to grab Miles and run but the sodding bastard is somehow on his horse.  Bloodshot eyes try to focus on him.  “Get on.”

  


No chance to argue, Shaun grabs on to the horn of the saddle and hauls himself up behind the cantle.  The big gelding needs no prompting and they’re gone. 

  


His thighs burn as he tries to keep his feet from spooking the animal further, but there’s little choice with the horse full gallop.  Rebecca manages to follow them with the coach, Lucy’s hail of gunfire ensuring none feel the need to follow.

  


Finally, the horse grows weary under the weight of two grown men.  “I think we’re safe now!” he hollers but Miles doesn’t hear. 

  


Or can’t hear.  The American slumps forward and it’s all Shaun can do to catch him.  It’s a blessing that the reins are still in  
limp fingers and Shaun gets the sweating gelding under control, bringing them to a halt just off the road. 

  


The coach comes to a stop alongside them and the ladies are quick to catch the barely conscious man before he tumbles.  Quick to dismount, Shaun only barely catches what Miles is saying with the man sprawled across the ground.

  


“ _Aspetta_.  _Non capisco.”_

  


Rebecca looks ready to spit and does so in an impressive arc. “ _This_ is the guy everybody wants?”

  


“Definitely,” Lucy says, set in grim determination.  “And we’ve got him.”

  


The other woman shakes her head and dries a sweaty hand across the front of her trousers.  “So what do we do now?”

  


Italian trips from Miles’s tongue as he stares blindly into the sky. His whole body shakes. _“Così…  così tante domande.”_

  


“Now?” Stripping off his coat, Shaun drapes it gently across the shivering form.  “Now, we wait.”


	2. Chapter 2

   
It's Lucy's turn on watch and she is _starving_. A bite or two of pemmican is hardly enough, but it would have to suffice for now.  Far too dangerous to stay in one place, they’d bundled their patient into the rear of their coach to do their waiting elsewhere.  Food quickly became an issue when on the run.  
   
Hard for any of them to hunt while being hunted.  
   
Continuing their trip hadn’t gone quite as intended.  Mister Miles hadn’t taken kindly to being carried.   
   
Fists and feet and a polyglot of swear words flew through the air in his half-mad state.  The drugs boiling his blood did little to curb his strength as Shaun got to discover firsthand.  Thankfully, the damage done can be catalogued as one bloodied nose and a large helping of wounded pride.  Shaun grabs at the chance for a calculated retreat by taking a turn at the coach’s reins.  
   
The night has been long and rough, waiting, tending to the man completely buried under blankets to sweat out his demons.  It’s halfway through hour eight before his nightmare-fueled shivering finally stops.   
   
Thankfully, so does his thrashing.     
   
“Only a little longer now,” Rebecca grumbles again even as she’s falling asleep, her bed roll tucked in a cramped corner.  “Ham fisted idiots should learn how to brew if they want to play with fire.  Shouldn’t hit a man with it while he’s out in the open, neither.”  
   
Miles still twitches from time to time and it’s hard to tell whether he’s fighting a phantom to the death or merely deep asleep.  
   
One can only hope it’s the latter.  
   
After a while, Rebecca is snoring away and the rocking of the coach nearly pulls Lucy into sleep right along with her.  She fires up a small lantern to ward the drowsiness away, to put all that’s happened to paper while the turbulent mess still fills her thoughts. Duty before self, even if that duty was to do the impossible.   _They_ would want to know had happened, even though it’d be days before she could reach a town large enough to post-  
   
A gasp bursts through her musings; breaths come desperate and harsh and it’s suddenly sounding too much like the man right next to her is drowning on dry land.  
   
“Mister Miles,” Lucy calls to no avail, unsure of what next to say.   
   
Well, that’s a damn lie. She knows quite well what _should_ come next, but it’s the distinct possibility that English might not be the language to deliver it that gives her pause.  It doesn’t help that the person best able to translate is currently in the driver’s seat. “Desmond!”  
   
His head snaps back at the sound of his given name like it’s a blow across the face.  
Suddenly awkward limbs try to carry his bulk backwards.  He fights a futile battle with heavy blanket, rubbing at his eyes like that might erase every invisible thing that plagues him.  
   
Lucy dims her lantern and she’s right by his side.  “Desmond, please!  Calm down!”  
   
Shaking, he takes one quick look and he’s averting his gaze, unable to look at her as if she’s grown a second head.   
   
Which might well be the case, considering the circumstances.

Everything about him is tentative and desperately frightened and just as desperate not to show it. He’s squinting at her in the darkness, looking through his fingers as if the sun sits right behind her shoulder.   
   
She only gets a quick glance before it’s gone but it takes her breath away.  
   
His eyes.   
   
Have… have they changed color?  
   
He shutters himself closed and there’s no chance for a second look but that is no matter.  
   
Guilt wars with her elation but a primal joy wins out.  If what he sees has nothing to do with the itch in his veins… suddenly, the insurmountable task they’ve been given doesn’t seem quite so insurmountable.  
   
“Please, Mister Miles.  It’s Lucy- Lucy Stillman,” she remembers to say, hoping this makes the least bit of sense to him. “I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re feeling right now but you must calm down.”  
   
Eyes screwed shut, he struggles to catch his breath.  “What… what is this?  The colors…”  His voice is rougher than sack cloth on bare skin. “What’s going on?”  
   
“You’ve been drugged,” she says, withholding a breath of her own.  
   
His head flops back against the sweat-soaked remains of Shaun’s coat.  “Drugged!  Good!  That’s good,” he manages with a dry laugh that sounds like it’s decidedly not so good after all.  “The walls are starting to melt and …. I was getting a little worried.”   
   
She laughs in earnest, for whatever she thought was coming next, this wasn’t it. “The hallucinations will pass.”  Her question comes out as innocent as she can make it.  “Do you remember anything?”  
   
There’s that dry laugh again and it’s so close to a sob that it hurts.  “Remember?  Yeah, I remember a lot of things.”   Desmond slowly takes one lungful after another and it soothes him somewhat.  “A lifetime.  More than one- all trying to get inside my head.”  
   
Lucy tries to temper her triumph.  Perhaps…. Perhaps they would have all they need, all in one go-  
   
His lips are cracked and dry but that doesn’t stop Desmond from continuing.  “There was so much. It kept coming, like a rain that just won’t quit but you’re trapped at the bottom of a gorge.  Can’t escape.  No way to keep up.”  
   
Her disappointment stays just as hidden. “From what Ms Crane tells me, you were hit pretty hard. They slipped you an awful lot of peyote.”  
   
This reassurance doesn’t have the desired effect.   
   
“They?” He’s looking about set to run again, ready in spirit, if not in body. “Who’s ‘they’?”  
   
Lucy doesn’t have the heart to tell him just yet.  
   
\------------------------------  
   
Contrary to popular opinion, Shaun is not fond of spending the night with a trio of horse rump as his only companion.  The night air is chilly without his coat and the wind whips right through him.  They’ve had the tiniest bit of luck in that the full moon shines down brightly enough to let them keep moving.  A glance at the cross ties and Miles’s horse has finally settled down, easily keeping pace with the others though all of the beasts are looking a little weary.  
   
Face throbbing, leg cramping and he tries desperately to not in any way more to think about sleep.   
   
Glorious sleep.  On a nice, warm bed.  
   
Preferably with a decent roof …. over…  over    his-  
   
There’s a sensation of falling as fatigue nearly claims him that sends a shot of adrenaline straight through his fingers.  The carriage trundles on without notice.  
   
Focus comes hard this time of night but he should be used to it by now.   
   
It was exactly this time of night when the Templars had come for him.  One published paper too many, he’d upset the wrong sort of person.  The possibility had never entered his mind that his research would culminate with his throat at the end of someone’s knife.  
   
But it had.   
   
There had been little choice but to join those who saved him, a small amount of vindication his only reward before beginning this mad quest. Thousands of miles from home, from everything he’s known. So much fragile hope pinned to the possibility they would find a man who had no wish to be found.   
   
But they had.   
   
So many impossible things.  Enough for one lifetime, and yet…  
   
Hard to believe what came from a drugged man’s mouth if he hadn’t heard it with his own ears.  He understood it.  His research skills had been put to the test once he’d been attached to this insane task, but that was all on paper.  It was Rebecca who had all of the practical experience.  
   
An ancient ritual by an ancient people.  Spiritual communion with one’s ancestors.    
   
 _Ana mareed._  
   
 _Non capisco._  
   
Shaun struggles to avoid being launched from his seat as the horses take the carriage over a bump he should have noticed well before now.  The impact rattles his spine but he’s paying attention now, shouts of annoyance filtering through from within the carriage.  He ignores those easily enough, much more bothered by how even Miles’s big brute of a horse is faltering.   
   
There’s a stream just visible past a clearing that’s calling to him so he pulls up on the reins.  
   
“Hell’s bells!”  Rebecca is in full cry before she even jumps from the carriage, rubbing at the bruise forming on her forehead.  “And you’re the one that complains about my driving?”  
   
“Hush, woman!” he snaps back more from force of habit, really, already undoing buckles and cinches. “Make yourself useful for once.”  
   
From the outside, it sounds brutal but they work together smoothly, releasing the horses from their traces even as they continue their nipping at each other’s heels.  
   
“Ornery _and_ ugly.  How do you English get by?”  
   
“Obviously with no help from you, you poxy idiot.”  
   
Finally free of impractical skirts, Lucy gets to join in the fun.     
   
“He’s resting peacefully,” she says brightly enough though that energy doesn’t reach her eyes. “Finally.”  Exhaustion shakes her hands as she loosens the breast collar from their bay mare.  She readies a rope but Shaun takes it from her.  
   
“Go.” His own weariness shows when he can’t work out a proper insult.  “Sleep.”  
   
Rebecca is already heading to higher ground with the black mare in tow.  “I’ll take care of Jenny,” she calls back, settling her rifle against her shoulder.  “You’ll hear me if trouble’s coming.”  
   
He sets out on his own, horses in tow.  This bay mare is a feisty young thing they picked up in Council Grove. Her nostrils still flare as she fidgets on his lead. “Easy, Flora.”  
   
Miles’s nag follows with the obedience of an old dog.  Shaun would have hardly noticed the thing if it didn’t have the tendency of nudging him in the small of his back with each pause he made to scan the horizon.  
   
Reaching the stream gives them all enough of a cool down.  The horses drink their fill and Shaun does the same.  The walk back is easier, though slower.  They’re all eager to rest but the gelding has dried to a sweaty mess which leaves Shaun with more work to do.   
   
He leaves Flora to live up to her name, tearing up great big hunks of flowers by the roots as far as her lead lets her.  The gelding still follows him like a half ton child and there’s a pleased little nicker when it spots what Shaun’s pulled from the coach.  
   
Brushing down this handsome beast is almost cathartic and Shaun makes the most of it by taking long, casual strokes.  There’s some shifting and the horse leans into him for more, at the same time nibbling at the tall grass to satiate itself in as many ways as it can.  
   
“Shameless!” he laughs. The gelding shifts from one foot to the other, bumping him gently with one hip to remind him that the brushing has stopped.  “You are utterly shameless.”  
   
“His name is Aguila.”  
   
Shaun resists the urge to fly around at the unexpected voice, focusing instead on the last bit of dirt on the gelding’s flank.  “You should be asleep, Mister Miles.”  
   
He turns, trying to look unperturbed but this fails. There’s just a shell of the smiling, forthright man he’d met in La Porte in the person before him.  
   
“Yeah, well,” Miles says as he steps to his horse with averted eyes. “Don’t feel much like sleeping, Mister Hastings.”  
   
There’s a whinny and the gelding is beside itself at the touch of its master across its broad forehead.  “Hey, boy.  Hey.”   
   
The moment seems far too private but Shaun is caught before he can slip away.  
   
“Thanks for taking care of him,” Miles says, a quirk of that smile he’s only seen once before.  “Thanks for taking care of me, too, I guess.”  
   
“What?” Shaun’s too tired not to laugh at the suggestion. “The ladies had more of a hand in that.  I just drove the coach.”  
   
“Maybe.”  Without looking, Miles awkwardly hands over a dark bundle.  “Sorry I won’t have time to clean it before I go.”  
   
His brain doesn’t process why it’s so familiar at first but Shaun takes it anyway.   
   
His coat.  
   
It takes a moment but his brain manages to catch up.  “’Go’?  Where are you going?”  
   
Miles refuses to look at him while settling a saddle blanket across Aguila’s broad back.  “Gotta find me a doctor… or a healer or something.  I hear the Ute use that stuff I got hit with. They would know. Or the Cree.  Maybe… maybe-”  
   
“Peyote?”  Shaun asks, too addled to follow.  “The dose of mescaline you were given was massive, but the effects should be long gone by now.”  
   
Shoulders sag and Miles bolsters himself against his horse. “Really?  I thought… I’d hoped-“  
   
“What the devil is wrong with you, Miles?” Shaun snaps with instant regret.  
   
“I don’t know.” The simple admission comes from deep within the man’s chest.  “I was hoping you could tell me.”  
   
Threading his fingers through his horse’s mane was some reassurance that permits Desmond to continue. “I’m still seeing things- _people_ \- that aren’t there.  And sometimes when I look at something that’s supposed to be there, everything’s dark, darker than normal -“  
   
He swallows thickly as if the words are too heavy on his tongue.  “Though there’s colors. Bright colors. But not for everything. Just some things.”  
   
The troubled man lifts his troubled head and finally meets Shaun’s perplexed stare.   
   
“Like you, for instance,” says Desmond, lips quirking as if something is holding back his smile.  “You’re a bright blue.”  
   
Those eyes.  Eyes so bright that Shaun can’t tear himself away, lit up with the reflection of a warm fire where there was no fire to be had.  
   
It couldn’t be real.   
   
Could it?   
   
He’d found stories within the archives that spoke of such things.  Gifts.  Visions.  Few if any of those he met saw fit to confirm it.   
   
Had the mescaline opened doors that were sealed before?  
   
“Mister Miles,” Shaun begins but something makes himself correct that almost immediately. “ _Desmond_. You may want to take a seat.” He pulls in his upper lip, clenching it for a moment between his teeth while the pain gives him focus.  “What do you know of your ancestors?”  
   
It’s Desmond’s turn to look perplexed.   
   
Together they sit, Aguila taking great, big horsey breaths between them while Shaun spins his tale and Desmond hangs on every word.  
   
It goes on and on so long that the sun starts its climb over the horizon.   
   
Visions. Assassins. Templars.

The battle to save the world.  An impossible thing that shouldn't have been.

But it was.


End file.
